


Penny For His Thoughts

by TheZeroMoment



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Basically I Wanted Simon Gushing over Kieren, Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, ITF Happy/Sad Fanfic Challenge, M/M, Simon is in love, dont judge me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheZeroMoment/pseuds/TheZeroMoment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon's internal monologue, which oddly enough revolves around Kieren Walker. He's so in love it hurts. </p><p>Written for the ITF Sad/Happy fanfic challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penny For His Thoughts

Kieren was… An anomaly.

The minute he’d seen the young boy, orange makeup smeared over his face and eyes hooded and dark with blown pupils even in the middle of the day, he had known he was something special, someone to be careful of; in which way yet he had no clue.

His brow had been furrowed ever so slightly, squinting at the light from the winter sun, he’d been damn sure he’d never seen anyone so… beautiful but modestly so. He was the sort of person that radiated his own light, the sort that wouldn’t fade no matter the time of day, glowing from around his head like the halo of one of the angels forged in stained glass windows.

"Scuse me, you’re sitting on me grave," he said like he was unsure of his words, unsure of Simon.

"This you?" Idiot. There was a thousand other ways he could’ve said that that didn’t sound so stupid. And then he went and brought up the ridiculous amount of cover-up the kid was wearing, he should’ve known it to be a comfort thing, much like his jumpers - which Kieren had picked fun at many a time regardless -he didn’t care about this, he should confirm, he enjoyed seeing that slight hint of humour in the boys’ eyes behind his contacts too much to stop him.

He had never known anyone so determined to hide himself away and it felt like Simon was personally being victimised by it, because Kieren was amazing, he was refreshing and unpredictable and so passionate and loving, it made his head spin and his eyes widen, unblinking to make sure he didn’t miss a moment of Kieren smiling or laughing or walking in his odd little limp from his time spent six feet under.

He loved Kieren the minute he realised he could have him, at the campfire at that rising party they’d hosted upon his arrival, when Simon touched his smooth, ever so soft hands, probably roughened at the fingertips from holding a pencil in half of his woken hours.

“There’s nothing for me here.”

“There’s me.”

Kieren didn’t yank himself away, and Simons breath caught in his throat, his deadened nerves coming alive in only the places they were touching; his skin prickling and eyes unblinking, watching him, while he damn near refused to move. He couldn’t move. It felt like Kieren had dragged him into his own orbit, because Kieren was the sun and all the stars that night. Skin glowing with beauty and touch tentative before he pulled himself back.

He had to go, he had said. Simon let him walk away, watching his swaying figure disappear in the mass of undead bodies dancing to some awful dubstep shite.

And then there was the night Freddy Preston went rabid. He felt bad for the guy, he truly did; but he resented him because it was that which made Kieren so frightened, so jumpy.

Simon was still mad at him from what had happened at the clinic that day; he’d thought he’d been lied to, that Kieren didn’t care about him after all, he’d prefer to protect those monsters at the treatment centre than him. He acted like the treatment centre was a good place. He didn’t know a thing, but it was an innocent ignorance, and Simon couldn’t stay mad for longer than a few hours, and even less so when Kieren had shown up on his doorstep, pushing past him. He was gasping and blinking hard. One of his contacts was missing; revealing his broken pupils and whitewashed irises. His cover-up was smudged, and he relished in the knowledge that Kieren’s skin wasn’t actually orange but like his, ashen and gray. He learnt at a later date that the younger boy was purer, paler, more angelic than he could’ve ever known at this point, with razor sharp cheekbones and blackened veins twisting under his eyes and along his temples.

Simon wanted to trace his jaw, his cheeks, smudge more of the cover-up away and calm him, but Kieren was having none of that.

He was kissing him.

He was grabbing and pulling at Simons’ sleep shirt collar and pressing his dry mouth needily to his own, falling forward in his steps to get closer, practically sobbing in relief of the basic contact that made Simon feel more alive than he was when he was actually living. He couldn’t believe it. His skin was burning in contact with his sun, every cell in his brain coming alive with worry for Kieren, because Kieren was everything that mattered, he was all that Simon cared for anymore, maybe apart from his Undead brotherhood and Amy, and he was clinging to him; kissing with such a frenzy that it worried him. Something was wrong, and Simon fought back his own selfish desire to ravage the younger boys mouth and instead smoothed his fingers along his skin, shifting the make-up, holding him, stilling him, attempting to calm him with everything he could.

Kieren was begging for safety, for reassurance, and Simon tried to say in his gestures that it was okay, everything was fine and he would defend him with his life if needed.

After the kiss had broken, and Kieren had stood, shaking and panting still, clinging to Simon and pushing his face against his shoulder for a good five minutes with Simons arms wrapped tightly around him, when he’d tried to ask whatever that was, was about; Kieren had pulled away, apologising repeatedly and leaving abruptly, abandoning Simon in Amy’s porch - okay maybe ‘abandoning’ is a bit dramatic, but still.

He hadn’t known what they were then, and Kieren had never confirmed anything with him either, but they were comfortable.

Simon loved him more than anything.

So much, it seemed, that he was prepared to slather himself in vile orange goo and attend a painfully awkward and surprisingly normal Sunday lunch with Kieren’s parents; well it was normal until Kieren, sweet, timid Kieren started shouting abuse at his sisters boyfriend,

"It's weird at first because all there is is just darkness. It's so dark. Doesn't make a difference if your eyes are open or closed. What you think is that you've been buried alive… Not ideal. Now that's proper, proper panic, that, you know? You hit out at the lid of the coffin, even though you know there's no way. But then it starts to give. You have to push your way through all the soil. Takes ages, doesn't it. Takes so long, then suddenly, something's different - you feel the wind on the tips of your fingers. And the rain. 'Cause before that you're not really sure where you are, but, but now you know, and you're pushing through, and then all this stuff at once - the moon, and this incredible storm blowing. And the clock chiming midnight and you're just standing there. Nobody else around and all of it pushing into me."

He was the first out of the ground. He was the first risen, God, when the Prophet had gone on about the first risen being the saviour, he had had no idea; Simon himself had had no idea.  
  
“This hunger, this appetite, I could not wait to get started.”  
  


And now he couldn’t imagine anyone else, anyone less perfect leading them to redemption.

 

Looking back on it now, Simon had been a fool, stupidly loyal to the Prophet - someone he’d never met, and the other disciples that he’d called them that night, needing to gush to his Undead brothers and sisters about the beautiful, naive first risen who was completely oblivious to the fact he would save them all.

 

He had betrayed Kieren; betrayed everything the younger boy - the man he loved so dearly, had taught him in a few days and instead sold out his marvel to a cold, heartless monster. The Prophet was no better than John Weston and his crowd of men, picking at them, pointing and whispering and singling out…

 

He had phoned Julian though, and he had agreed to meet in the City as soon as possible, as much as it would break him to leave Kieren here. He had wished he could’ve take him with him then, show him off; let Julian tell the prophet firsthand how brilliant Kieren is. That was the stupidist thing to ever consider, he knew, after he’d met with him in that hotel room that night and watched the webcam-recorded shite the prophet had spewed.

 

Kill the First Risen so the Second Rising may come about.

 

Kill the First Risen.

 

Kill Kieren.

 

Simon felt this duty hanging over him like a dead weight, the prophet looming over his shoulder; a shadow one step behind him everywhere he went. It was a day and a half that he sat in various bus shelters and a motel room, stimming by rocking back and forth - making quite a few Living cast wary looks at him. He didn’t care; he wanted rid of everything, he wanted to go back to Kieren, tell him everything, apologise, yet he knew he couldn’t do that. He knew he had to do this; the entire ULA was depending on him.

 

The knife was stowed in the bottom of his rucksack when the train pulled up into the tiny station in Roarton. He felt its presence there, the significance it held. He was going to kill Kieren for the good of Undead everywhere, or something like that.

 

Simon had never killed someone before, not while being conscious of what he was doing at least; and the thought of how cold Kieren already was; would he freeze over in actual death? The golden light that seemed to radiate from his skin be gone forever.

 

He hardly slept that night, which was understandable, seeing as he couldn’t get the idea of Kieren’s rotten blood leaking steadily over his hands out of his head.

 

The morning light was dim and weak as it trickled through the curtains and onto the sheets of the bedspread. He rose almost robotically, dressing quickly and pocketing the smooth bone knife. He hated the way he held it easily, how his palm curled around the handle and his fingers rested on the blunt edge of the blade securely and how he could ever so easily harm himself with it, like how he was going to harm Kieren.

 

The Prophet’s plan must carry through.

 

He walked briskly to the Walker household, letting his nervous shifty fingers grapple with the edges of his too-long sleeves as a distraction as he walked down the street, damp mist setting in the air.

 

The Walker household was deadly quiet, which was an odd relief. He didn’t want to look at Kieren’s parents, or Jem, knowing what he had to do in a few hours.

 

Jem’s boyfriend, the one who shoved Kieren in the legion once, was getting into a truck on the other side of the road. Simon concluded briefly that he must be leaving with Jem or something to go to the parade.

 

Kieren would be at the parade.

 

He walked there and stood away from the crowds intending to let the parade pass and not have to hurt Kieren in front of his family, watching the parade discuss things with the Undead.

 

He heard him before he saw him; a low groan and shuffle and eventually the dull crack of bones collapsing on concrete. Simon saw him struggling in the graveyard, fumbling with his hands as his shoulders shook. What was going on?

 

Simon wasn’t fully aware of the next ten minutes or so; only that they had involved Kieren forcing himself to not turn rabid which was wonderful, amazing, his Kieren…

 

He also had a bullet hole in his shoulder, but you can’t get everything right.

 

He was rambling, he remembered that much, because Kieren was alive, Kieren was okay, it was going to be okay no matter what because they were both alive and-

 

“Did I hurt anyone?”

 

The joy bubbled out of him in the form of a choked off laugh. They were okay. They were alive.

 

“No.” Simon wanted to kiss him but he knew it wasn’t quite the time to do such a thing.

It was going to be okay.

 

 


End file.
